


The Ultimate Robin and Superboy Guide to Being a Hero [DISCONTINUED]

by Eye_In_The_Sky



Series: There's No Manual For Love [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aged-Up Character(s), Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Damian Wayne is Robin, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gotham Academy, Gotham City - Freeform, Jealousy, M/M, Masks, Skipping Class, Superheroes, Teenagers, Wayne Enterprises, Young Love, like for five days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:04:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eye_In_The_Sky/pseuds/Eye_In_The_Sky
Summary: During a charity event hosted by Bruce Wayne, Damian and Jon encounter a lost street kid named Colin Wilkes, who’s on the run from an unidentified criminal only known by his crime name: the Dollmaker. The effort to save Colin and track down his hunter leaves them on the run from dangerous criminals hiding at every turn of Gotham and Star City. But it may take more than they realize save the boy - and their own relationship.





	1. The Encounter of Colin Wilkes

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: Read 'There's No Manual For Love' first. Not really necessary to understand this, but it gives a better backstory and something to go off of.
> 
> Also, I wrote this story using a mix of cannonical information from the comics, tv shows, and movies, so don't freak out if something doesn't make sense. This is like that pie recepie you're trying out for the first time using you're grandma's 90's oven.

**— M A I N   C H A R A C T E R S —**

 

 **Damian Wayne** \- 15 years old, heir to Wayne Industries. Current Robin, and blood son of Batman. Ex-assassin from his mother’s training. Best friends with Superman’s son. Often repeats the mantra, _justice, not vengeance._ Gets irritated easily. Nights are spent sneaking out of Wayne Manor.

 **Jonathan Kent -** Better known as Jon. Same age as Damian, and is often dragged along to his father’s news scoops (galas, charity events, etc.), though he gets bored most of the time. Fights crime as Superboy with Robin. Sense of humour. A really cringey one.

 **Colin Wilkes -** Has been running from foster home to foster home for several years, currently lives on the streets, running from several gangsters he’s pissed off. Is fascinated with the idea of becoming a superhero, and meeting Robin. Loves Doritos.

  
  
  


—  **D A M I A N —**

 

The night of the charity event, Damian is fairly sure he’s going to throw up.

His father had made him put on a silver-lined black tuxedo, with dress shoes and elegant pants. Then he’d insisted Damian put gel in his hair - except Damian, with no experience whatsoever, had ended up with more gel than hair. And that thing itches. A _lot_.

To top it all off, he is prohibited to take any weapons with him.

Complete injustice, because this is his own _home._  

It isn’t the first time Bruce has pulled something like this. Damian is his official son, after all, and he is expected at every gala. He’s managed to escape from the seven his father had hosted so far. But the press has been all over them for _months_ now, demanding Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, show his _son_.

Damian had snarled when he’d read the newspaper. _Show?_ What, like he was some sort of trophy to be put on display? The wooden table had ended up with a faint crack down the middle, leaving a not-so-pleased Alfred to paint over it. Of course, Titus knocking over the brown paint can didn’t assist the effort.

“This is childish,” he scowls as they make their way down the stairs. The first guests are already arriving.  “You should not fall victim to stupid reporters. You’re _Batman,_ father.”

Bruce looks over at him, eyebrow raised as a smirk settles on his face. “Not tonight. I’m Bruce Wayne.”

Then he speeds down the stairs to welcome an overzealous looking lady and some old guy who is probably her father but might be her husband. Damian shakes his head, making a face. In this world, you never knew.

He’s taken a silver knife, hidden it in a special compartment in his left shoe, but that doesn’t make him feel safer. With all these people crowding around, he’s betting on needing _social skills_ much more than _self-defense training._ He shudders. If only he could stay locked up in his room tonight. But father had been convincing: no gala, no Robin.

And they both knew which one he’d choose.

Damian forces a hopefully decent-looking smile as more and more people flood into the Foyer and Great Hall. He straightens his posture when Bruce walks over, with the same witch-lady and hundred year old man.

“Ariel, Graham, this is the son you’ve all been hearing about,” he says, silently telling Damian to comply.

Damian keeps his snarl under wraps, beaming up at the lady. Ow. Now his face hurts. “Hey, miss! Nice to meet you.” He nearly throws up from his vocabulary. Only _children_ speak like that.

The lady leans down and takes his face in her hands, grinning. She’s so close Damian can see the truckloads of makeup she’s applied, and practically _senses_ the buckets of rose-smelling perfume on her neck. She has curly blonde hair, and may actually be pretty if she doesn’t try to impress so much. “Oh Bruce, he’s _adorable_! What a selfish man you are, keeping him all locked up here.”

“Thanks for your concern,” Damian lies smoothly, winking for added effect. “But I’ve just been _really_ busy with schoolwork.” He pretends to see someone at the entrance. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go and see a friend.”  

Then he dashes off quicker than the Flash, because _god_ knows exactly how that lady would unbeknowingly humiliate him if left to her own devices. He shudders, barely repressing the urge to run to the bathroom and give his face a full private shower.

He backs up against the wall, nearly crashing into a painting. Looking out over the people bustling in, he runs a hand through his hair. How, exactly, does father expect him to survive this?

“Dames!”

Damian turns.

And loses his breath.

Jon.

And he looks . . . breathtaking.

Checkered black and white shirt, ironed blue jeans, black hair tousled, like he’s just gotten out of bed, and cheeks flushed. To top it off, a pair of sunglasses sit on his face. It’s incredibly stupid and endearing at the same time. Damian smirks at him and straightens up, gliding over.

“Jon.” He raises an eyebrow, trying to keep his cool despite how fast his heartbeat becomes. “Why are you here?”

Jon presses a hand to his chest, wiping away a fake tear. “Oh, I can’t believe this! My own _boyfriend_ doesn’t want me? I’m done for!”

A laugh escapes Damian. “You know, you could land the starring role in a Shakespearean tragedy.”

Jon snorts. “Oh yeah. I’m Juliet. You could be my Romeo.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Tt. Shut up.”

The closest they can get in public is _literally_ being close. They haven’t told Bruce, or Clark, or _anyone_ about their relationship, though there have been a few close calls. Neither of them are particularly _scared_ of what might happen. After all, both their parents have shown themselves to be full supporters of the LGBTQ+ community. It’s more . . .  waiting for the right time.

When exactly that is, neither of them are sure.

“So how long does this last?”

Damian slumps back against the wall, cursing as he nearly knocks off the same painting again. “Supposedly until midnight. But knowing father, probably longer.”

Jon stares at him, agape. “It’s _six in the afternoon._ ”

Damian grimaces. “I’m aware.”

He studies the people coming in: women in elegant, silk-woven dresses, and men in formal tuxedos, ranging from black to crimson red. They’re all supposedly here to fund the charity event his father has opened up; raising money for people living on the streets. A small facility — which  has been under construction for a while now — will open up as a shelter for the homeless. It’s a good gesture, Damian thinks, but he knows his father is only doing it for appearances. If Bruce Wayne could buy out every abandoned lot and construct _more_ shelters to help more people, he would. Being in the spotlight of Gotham City is _torture._

“Wanna get some drinks?” Jon asks, pushing himself off the wall.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” Damian says warily. Jon laughs.

“I mean actual drinks. Don’t you guys have soda or something?”

Disappointingly, the answer is no. Damian keeps himself in peak physical condition, which, save for very special days, includes strict off-limits food and drinks, soda being one of them. And his father doesn’t exactly expect many children at his events. But he doesn’t want to disappoint Jon, so he tells him,

“Let me ask Alfred.”

It’s how, twenty minutes later, they find themselves in the manor’s backyard, which is big enough to fit around twenty Cessna Skyhawks but is rarely used by anyone other than Damian to train Kendo. The shrubbery is not a very active opponent, but it helps him practice his aim.

Thank you, shrubbery.

The garden is beautiful: Damian’s only issue is the lack of care it gets. There are groupings of evergreen trees perched like sentinels at every corner, and tall blades of grass remind Damian of the overflowing waters of the Lazarus Pit. Then there’s the fountain. Perfectly sculpted, with a centre of a dolphin surrounded by three sharks. Water is supposed to come out of their mouths, but their inactive state leaves them looking like they’re eating up the bright stars.

He and Jon sit on the stone steps, shoulders pressing together, wolfing down a bowl of caramel popcorn. Thankfully, the party has stayed inside Wayne Manor, and the gate leading out is locked, so there’s nobody who can surprise attack them.

Damian swipes the last handful, leaving Jon whining at the unfairness.

“You got more.”

“You’re calling me short all the time. I think _I_ deserve more food.”

“Not true.”

Damian snickers, and Jon follows. They look at each other, quieting. Then, suddenly, like the first time they did it, they’re kissing. Jon’s lips are soft against his, moving, slowly. It won’t go too far, and Damian’s grateful. They’re fifteen. And all he needs is for Jon to be with him. He closes his eyes, sensing warmth, and tangles his fingers in Jon’s silky locks, pulling him closer —

“ _HELP! HELP ME!”_

He looks up so fast it feels like a whip has struck his neck. The popcorn bowl goes flying. The scream still echoes around the garden, but Damian knows it came from the furthest point back. He shares a look with Jon, an unspoken agreement passing between them. Jon grabs him by the waist and they swoop into the air, landing in less than a second by the wall.

“ _Help!”_

Before he knows what he’s doing, Damian jumps over the barrier and lands nimbly on his feet, breathing hard. Someone’s in trouble. A crack in front of him makes him squint, and retrieve his dagger from his shoe. Jon’s beside him, face flushed, azure eyes narrowed.

For a moment, all is quiet. The only sounds are the faraway laughs from the gala, and the chirping of crickets from the woods in front of them. The moonlight is their only illumination; this part of the property is rarely used, and overgrown vegetation covers the once visible stone path. No lamplights, no nothing. Damian can hear his own erratic breathing.

Jon shifts, half-turning to him. “Should we —”

A boy is suddenly in front of them. Damian only registers his wild orange hair, and then he’s in their faces and knocking down Jon. Damian’s too shocked to do anything for a moment. Then his brain clicks, and he reaches down, blood jumping to push the boy off, but is stopped by a throaty growl. Slowly, he looks up.

 _Fu_ —

The thing is in front of him, teeth bared and slobbering saliva. It jumps, landing on Damian’s chest like a crushing boulder dropped from Everest. He can’t breathe. In the dark, he can only make out the disgusting mouth and pig-like nose. The skin is a dark brown, and snot drips onto Damian’s face. He tries to shake it off, use his dagger, get air to his lungs, _something,_ but his arm is pinned to the ground by the thing’s foot, and the feeling of being crushed by water pressure does nothing to help him think straight. It shifts. Damian feels like he’s broken all his ribs. It shrieks, rears up — and is flying.

There’s red and blue and a whirlwind and the creature is gone, thrown several metres away. For a moment, it struggles. Then, it goes limp. Damian picks himself up, the dull ache already fading as he looks at Jon.

“Thank you.”

Jon smiles. Then he turns back to the boy. Damian goes up next to him as they kneel down in front of him.

He’s their age, with untamed fiery locks and startlingly sky-blue eyes. His face is dotted with freckles underneath the dirt and grime, and there’s several cuts that show through the holes in his ragged clothes. Clearly, he’s been on the streets for months. Distrust covers his face as he backs up to the wall, his shaking hands holding a small handgun.

“Don’t move,” he stutters. “Or I pull the trigger.”

And faster than Damian can blink, the gun is in Jon’s hand. The boy’s eyes widen as he practically sinks into the bricks behind him. “You  —”

“Shut up,” Damian snaps, moving closer. He hears Jon empty the pistol’s magazine. His eyes narrow as he holds the knife in front of him. Unless the boy turns out to be some sort of evildoer in disguise, he’s not really going to stab him. But the boy doesn’t know that. “Now, answer me: who are you? And why was that thing after you?”

The boy looks between the two of them, eyes flickering _back and forth back and forth_ as he shakes his head.

“Uh, Colin. Wilkes. And —” his throat seems to close up as he looks down, clasping his hands together. “I pissed off some really powerful guy.”

Damian shares a look with his boyfriend. Jon clears his throat.

“What powerful guy?”

Colin shrugs, meeting Jon’s gaze. “I only ever heard them call him by his alias; the Dollmaker.”

Damian racks his memory, reaching and reaching far back to every mission file and report he’s ever read or been given. Even during his time with the League of Assassins. But this man Colin mentions . . . Damian narrows his eyes. He doesn’t have any record of him. He huffs. He _hates_ not knowing.

He backs up to give the boy a little breathing space. “How were you involved with him?”

Colin looks away, lips pursed. Fantastic. He’s clammed up. Wary, distrustful . . . they’ve gotten out of him what they’ll get for now. Standing up, Damian takes Jon by the elbow and leads him a couple metres away, hoping Colin won’t just make a beeline for the forest.

“What’re we gonna do with him?” Jon asks, looking back at Colin.

Damian swallows. He doesn’t know. “Well, we cannot report him to the authorities. They would put him in foster care.”

Jon eyes him. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Ask Grayson,” Damian mutters. He’s heard enough nightmare-induced screams coming from his room at night to have a vague idea of the sort of life Dick led before Bruce adopted him. Granted, it had only been a fortnight, but those two weeks had not been kind to him. Damian, Jason, Tim, they’d all asked. And apparently the only two people Dick confided in enough to tell were Wally and Barbara. It was a matter of dignity, of not wanting family to see him at his weakest. Damian knew, because, perhaps for the first time, he’d sympathized with Dick.

Damian studies Colin. “I could always convince father to give him a room at the manor.”

Jon gapes at him. “The manor? And what’ll your dad say to the reporters? _Oh by the way, I’ve got a_ second _secret son I was also hiding from you. Sorry!”_

Damian scowls, looking down at the blades of dark green grass that are blowing in the chilly autumn wind. “It would only be a temporary solution.”

They stay silent. Damian examines Jon’s face. Eyebrows are scrunched together, lips set into a thin line, and a fierce determination in his eyes, like the day of their first kiss. For a moment, he’s worried Jon might just pick Colin up and drop him off at the doorsteps of the GPD office, because there’s no stopping him if he does. But Jon just relents, shoulders relaxing from his tense position as he nods.

“Okay. Say he stays with you. Then what?”

He shifts. “We could . . . track down the man hunting him.”

Colin seems to overhear this.

“No!” He shrieks, shaking his head faster than Damian previously thought possible. “No, he’ll either kill you or me or do both! You _can’t_ hunt him down. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“We probably have better chances,” Jon assures him, walking over again. “Look, whoever did this to you . . . we’ll find them. Promise.”

Colin seems to relax a fraction of an inch, though his eyes still shoot them both piercing gazes. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Do you know Bruce Wayne?” Damian pipes up. Colin nods. “He’s my father. If anything were to happen to you in that manor, he would know. Security here is tight.”

“Then how did I get in?” Colin asks, frowning.

“You’re not _in_ yet.” He pats the wall. “This wall provides anyone else from entering. I’ve just been training a long time to get out.”

Jon winces at those words. Damian knows why: he’s told Jon before, about his escape attempts from the property. They’re not fond memories. Bruce doesn’t bring up the subject anymore, because he’s already disabled the system that activates itself when someone tries to get out. But if Damian couldn’t do it, he’s fairly sure nobody else can bypass the security that gets them _in._

Colin blows out a breath. “Well, you haven’t told me your names.”

“Jonathan Kent. But you can call me Jon,” Jon says, grinning cheekily. Colin returns the gesture, than his gaze locks onto Damian’s.

“Damian Wayne,” Damian grumps.

Colin smirks, apparently amused. “I figured.”

For some reason, the words make Damian flush. He looks away, clearing his throat. “My father’s party is still going on. It’s only six-thirty.”

Jon hops up and down on one foot, giving him a _I’m totally scared but really excited to sneak someone into the freaking Wayne Manor_ look. At this point, though, Damian’s more worried for Colin’s safety than Jon’s. What will his father even say? He knows he’ll be grounded from being Robin, but on top of that, he has to convince him to let Colin stay there, at least for a couple weeks, until he and Jon can figure something out. He lets out a breath. Needless to say, this will complicate things.

“Jon, can you fly him up?”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Up?”

“There’s a trapdoor on the rooftop that leads down into the hall. It's next to the chimney."

For a moment, Jon stays silent. Then he grins. “Sure sounds like something your house would have. Okay. Meet us there in five.” He walks over to Colin and extends a hand, which is gratefully accepted. Damian takes out his phone and puts a disabling timer on the security systems. Alfred might notice, but then again, he’s probably far too busy with all the guests, so Damian guesses their chances are pretty good.

Then they’re off, Jon and Colin zooming over the wall and Damian launching himself onto the other side, practically tearing up the garden as he runs for the security gate. He’s fairly sure a potato goes flying somewhere behind him. He stops and looks behind, grimacing.

Yes, this garden _really_ needs maintenance.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  



	2. Chapter 2 // The Not-So-Prestigious Gotham High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s some disturbingly persistent kids at school, and apparently Damian’s never heard of Mission Impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY WOW THAT WAS LIKE WAY TOO LONG A WAIT FOR YOU GUYS.
> 
> Sorry, I swear I’ll try and be more consistent with updates.

**Jon**

  
The next day, Jon’s sitting with Damian outside during their lunch break at Gotham High, and they’re talking about what the heck they’re gonna do before Bruce Wayne finds out they snuck a street kid into his manor. Jon finds it pretty funny that last night — and this has  _ got  _ to be a first time Guiness World-Record — Bruce Wayne was  _ waaayy  _ too drunk to even remember how to get to his own bed properly. 

Alfred told the Bruce had been ‘coerced’ into drinking a couple glasses of wine by a lady Damian had said had a husband who could’ve been her dad. People left the donations as promised, though, raising a good ten million dollars, and the party had ended at three in the morning. 

Mr. Wayne is still dealing with his hangover. 

On the plus side, though, Jon and Damian had had no trouble sneaking Colin in; and if all went according to plan, Bruce and Alfred wouldn’t even know he was there. 

Jon takes a sip of the lemonade he bought at the Snack Bar and makes a face. It’s too citrusy. Probably better than nothing, though. Besides, it costs less than that water bottle they sell for five dollars. He scoops up some chocolate pudding from the container instead and shoves it into his mouth. Damian sits next to him, scrolling through all the case files from his missions on his phone. 

“Got anything?” Jon asks, mouth full of pudding. Damian looks over and raises an eyebrow at the mess on his face. 

“That’s disgusting.” 

Jon grins, and Damian rolls his eyes, brows scrunching back together as he shakes his head. Jon always tells him he’s cute when he’s focused, if only to get him flustered. “No. Nothing. I don’t think father has ever encountered this  _ Dollmaker  _ before.” 

“Have you asked anyone else?” 

Damian nods. “I sent a message to Drake and Todd. Perhaps they know something.” 

Somewhere close by, a bell rings, signalling the end of lunch and the start of their last class. Jon groans, throwing his head back as he tugs on his hair. “Oh, I have a math test. Damn it.” 

His boyfriend seems to find this funny. “Trigonometry. You can’t really find it  _ that  _ hard?” 

Jon playfully punches him, standing up. “Easy for you to say. You’ve known how to drive since you were  _ five.”  _

Damian joins him, snorting. “Well, yes. It wasn’t particularly difficult.” 

Jon lets out a groan of despair, making Damian snicker. They begin walking to class, passing students who pay them no mind. Jon’s glad that whole  _ oh lord look at the new kid  _ thing is over. The first time Damian came to the school two months ago,  _ everyone  _ looked at him. It made sense — after all, he’d completely skipped tenth grade for his intelligence, and more than once Jon had caught girls (and sometimes guys) muttering about his good looks. 

He’d just barely held back from shoving Damian behind him and telling them all to go screw themselves because he was  _ Jon’s  _ boyfriend, not theirs.

“When do you think we can . . . tell them?” 

Jon’s mind goes quiet for a moment. He knows Damian’s talking about revealing their relationship. 

“Well . . . whenever you feel comfortable, I guess.” 

Damian stops in his tracks, making Jon do the same. “Me?”

Worry brews in Jon’s stomach. “Uh, yeah,” he says, now unsure, “I mean, I’m cool coming out any time.”

Damian looks up at him, and there’s . . . there’s  _ something  _ in his emerald eyes, and Jon can’t make out what it is. 

“Am I holding you back?” Damian asks softly. Jon only stares. His tongue feels numb, as he tries to process the words.  _ Holding you back?  _

“Is . . . is that what you think?” 

Damian shrugs. “I’m unsure. Is it the truth?” He looks everywhere but at Jon, as if worried that making eye contact would somehow spill all his secrets — secrets he’s worked for years to keep buried. It hurts Jon, though he knows it shouldn’t. Damian was trained since he was two years old to kill, and it was only until five years ago his father got him to change his ways. It does make sense, that letting his walls down was seen as weak. But Jon . . . he just wants Damian to  _ trust  _ him, because he would put his life on the line for his boyfriend in a heartbeat. 

Jon reaches down and tangles their fingers together, making Damian look at him. 

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” Jon whispers, and he knows it’s a cheesy thing to tell him, but _ screw it,  _ he thinks, because he’s got to convince Damian, and seeing how his face goes a shade of pink is totally worth it. Should he be getting this affectionate so early on? “And a relationship goes both ways, you know? I’m fine with staying secret until you want to come out.” 

Damian bites his lip, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment. When he opens them, he’s smiling, which lights this warm fire in Jon, because  _ nobody  _ can make Damian smile like he can. 

“We’ll find out who’s chasing Colin. Think of it like . . . mission impossible.”

A wary look is shot in his direction. “Mission Impossible?” 

Jon stares at him. “You’ve  _ never  _ seen that movie?” Of course, when Damian gives him a hesitant  _ no,  _ Jon promises the first thing they’ll do when they get home is watch it, and maybe even the whole series, if they have time. Probably won’t, but eh, whatever. Feels good to have something to look forward to. 

They bid their goodbyes to each other, and Damian wishes him good luck on the test. Jon’s grateful, because gods above and below know how much he’ll need it. He makes his way to the algebra classroom, which is already filling up, and takes his seat behind Duster Lakes, resident wannabe bad boy. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to pick his place there at the beginning of the semester, but it was either behind or in front of the dude, and no way is he gonna fail this test for being accused of giving Lakes the answers.  _ Again. _

The teacher walks in: Mr. Argent, a man who gives a class about as exciting as tracking tomato plant growth rates. 

“Who’s absent today?” He drawls, beady eyes scanning them over. 

“No one, sir,” says Jon. 

Argent stares at him. “Uh-huh.” There’s a really uncomfortable silence before he speaks again. “The sheets will be passed out, and you have one hour to finish.” He motions Duster over, and the boy stands up, chair screeching so loud Jon actually winces, then glowers at him for nearly knocking Jon over. Duster takes the sheets from the teacher and scribbles something on the front one with a black pen, shooting Jon a smirk. Jon raises an eyebrow. Should he be concerned? Maybe. 

Eventually a paper arrives in his hands, and he’s just about to pick up his pencil when he notices what’s written on the front page, in big, black, permanent sharpie:

**_You got a hot b.f. Mind if I borrow him tonight?_ **

Jon turns fifty shades of red. 

_ What the actual hell?  _

He feels the blood in his face, heart pumping like an out-of-control water hose, and then he slaps his palms on the table and stands up, chair flying back. He barely registers the eyes turning to him, sole focus being Duster. The boy turns to look at him, a smug smirk stamped on his tan face. 

“What is  _ wrong  _ with you?” Jon snarls, forehead hurting from how tight his eyebrows are knit together and hands clenched so hard he feels like he’s drawing blood. Duster tilts his head. 

“Sorry, don’t getcha. Is that a no?” 

Jon screams. It’s a guttural scream, a  _ feral  _ one, and he feels his eyes blaze, like a bottle filled to the brim. He catches one mistake, but the other, his hands around Duster’s throat, continues, shaking him up and down. He feels like  _ throttling  _ the boy, so that’s what he does. Then he feels hands shoving him, and he’s pushed off, landing hard on the carpeted floor. The rug stings him, and he rubs his eyes, slowly opening them. 

None if his classmates have moved — they’re all either gaping at him or Duster, eyes wide and accusing, though that’s only pointed at him. A few shoot scared or angry looks at Jon, but really, he could care less. His hands are still itching to punch something, preferably something that can really  _ hurt.  _

“Good grief, Jonathan, what was that?” 

Jon looks up to see Mr. Argent standing over him with a mix of fear and anger on his face — probably the most emotion Jon’s ever seen on him. 

“Just look at the paper,” he spits. Argent raises an eyebrow, then sits on his haunches in front of Jon, eyebrows furrowed. He opens his mouth to say something —

_ “Mister Argent, can you please have Jonathan Kent sent up to the principal’s office?”  _

Their gazes both flick to the speaker in the room, then back to each other. Without another word, Jon picks himself up and grabs his pencil from the desk, leaving everything else behind as he slams the classroom door behind him. His backpack and school supplies will be thrown out the window by Duster when he gets back, but for the moment Jon can’t bring himself to care.

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. God,  _ just  _ when he thought it was over. 

He looks down at the super-bat pencil in his hands, and realizes he actually has no idea why he’s being sent to the main office.  _ Am I in some sort of trouble?  _ Maybe it was for skipping class that day when he and Damian got an emergency call . . . but no, he’d said he was feeling sick. Jon grins. Good enough excuse. 

_ “No ma’am, our parents our waiting outside. Yes, look. Can we . . . thank you.” _

He turns the corner and nearly runs into Damian, who’s apparently so hell-bent on exiting the school that he doesn’t see Jon until the last moment, and they’re both sent toppling to the ground. Jon wiggles his nose, looking down at it. 

“Jon, we have to go.”

Damian is already up and he’s extending a hand to Jon. Jon takes it with confusion, practically being forced to run as Damian drags him to the doors of the school. 

“Wait, what’s going on?” 

“Colin,” Damian huffs, and for some reason the name immediately lowers Jon’s mood. 

“What happened?” 

“Alfred found him. But he hasn’t told father yet.” He shoots Jon a look, emerald eyes glittering. “If we’re going to do anything, it has to be today.”

A feeling of  _ not-quite-right  _ lodges itself into Jon’s throat, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Fantastic. So what’s the plan?”

Damian runs a hand through his jet-black hair and hitches a shoulder, sliding his backpack straps further up. Then he stops, turn around, and digs out his phone.

“I found a lead.” He swipes right and brings up a series of screenshots — all profiles of criminals. Jon hasn’t heard of most of them. “About a month ago, the police stopped a metahuman trafficking ring that had been circling around Star city.”

The words jolt him. “Metahuman trafficking? Like what Dick stopped with his team?” 

“Technically, it wasn’t his team, and it’s been over a decade.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Okay, Sherlock. So they managed to stop it. Then what?”

“That’s the problem — they didn’t get the entire ring. Police knew it was only a portion, and the rest was still active. But it was impossible to get anything out of the metas. The children didn’t know, and the two adults they captured killed themselves before they got a chance to interrogate them.”

“What’s this got to do with Colin?” 

“I managed to hack a portion of their system.” He swipes again, and there’s a photo of a boy. He looks exactly like the Colin they met, save for the shorter hair. “Colin was  _ in  _ on this. These people had him. The night the abandoned power plant was raided, records say he disappeared.”

Jon stares. “You did all this from your  _ phone _ ?”

“It’s not that hard.” 

“You gotta teach me.”

Damian snickers and shoves his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Very well. One day.”

Number two thing to look forward to. The thought makes Jon grin. 

“The point is, Colin came from Star City. If we can get there, we can investigate the power planet, track down connections. We may be able to find who the Dollmaker is. And stop the metahuman trafficking.” Damian looks satisfied, then glances at Jon. 

Jon shifts. “Kill two birds with one stone. Nice.” 

Damian grimaces as they make a swift turn around the sidewalk. “My only concern is my father’s permission —”

“Bruce? Why?”

“For his part, he likes to stay to Gotham. If we tell him about this ring, he may just suggest Green Arrow look into it.”

Jon shakes his head. “But Oliver has his own problems to deal with. Star City is up there with Gotham in its crime rates. He would need to dedicate days to this investigation.”

“Well, yes, that’s debatable. But it’s not just  _ my  _ parents.”

Jon was too busy reminiscing about cool out-of-city adventures with Damian to remember his own parents.

_ Dammit. _

“They’ll say no.”

Damian snorts. “Tt. Your mother might. But she doesn’t understand the full importance of this situation like your father does. You can convince him.”

Coming from anyone else, the message would’ve come across as mocking the ignorance of Lois Lane. But Jon knows Damian’s just telling him the truth — his mom  _ doesn’t  _ get the risks like he, his dad, Bruce, or Damian do. 

If there’s one thing not-annoying thing about Damian’s no-nonsense attitude, it’s the honesty about others. 

“So what’s the plan?” He finally asks. 

“I talk with Alfred. I convince him.” 

“You’re not gonna wait for your dad?” 

“There’s no time,” Damian says, though the underlying annoyance in his words and the way his eyebrows furrow together make it pretty clear he’s not happy about the situation. “We get home, tell Colin what’s going on. Then you go, talk with your father, and pack. We meet at the Gotham Transit Station in two hours.”

“Okay.” A pause. “Wait,  _ pack _ ?”

“Some clothes, some food. That’s it. We’re going …” he stops for a second, looking like he’s searching for the right words. “On the down-low.”

Jon snickers. Slang sounds odd coming from Damian, but it’s cute.

“Coolio.”

They pick up their pace the rest of the way, coming in full-speed to the gates of Wayne Manor. Damian makes some dramatic gesture to get the attention at the cameras — apparently the mic was broken last light by a partygoer — and Jon laughs at that before the gates open and they’re let in. 

Dashing up to the gates, Alfred is already rushing them through and up to Damian’s bedroom, where the door is locked behind them and the weight of Alfred’s gaze (much heavier than a Blue Whale, Jon thinks) falls on them.

“What is that boy doing here, Master Damian?”

“We have a good reason—“

“I sure hope so.”

“—but you have to promise you won’t tell father.”

For a second, Alfred doesn’t move. Jon looks over at Colin and sees his expression is a confusing mix of what looks like guilt, anger, and defiance. 

Damian has pretty much stopped breathing, and it’s a second before Jon realizes he’s done the same. 

It’s like the fate of the world rests on Alfred’s next words. 

Then the butler drags a hand over his face. “Should I sit down?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but in retrospect, their plan  _ does _ sound pretty crazy to any sane adult.

“Yeah,” Jon says, “probably.”

 


	3. - Not an actual update -

Hey guys. So, the comments you all left have been pretty amazing (and funny) both in this work and “There’s No Manual for Love”. I really do like the DC Universe and Damian and Jon, but I have lost a lot of inspiration for it. I’m sorry, I know the readers were really looking forward to the next chapters, and presumably the whole story, but I’m just going through kind of a rough patch. Maybe one day I’ll come back to this story, but for now it’s just going to be discontinued.

I’m really sorry, I hope you understand.

Thank you for all your reads, comments and kudos!


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